


Scar Tissue

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, M/M, Mycroft Whump, Nyctophobia, Political Alliances, Psychological Torture, allergic reactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock asks Greg to look after Mycroft post-rescue from Eurus’s prison. This fic concerns Mycroft’s time there, Eurus’s plans for him, past issues in Mycroft’s early career, and how his relationship with Greg is the turning point for his path to peace.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 103
Kudos: 97
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. London:1997

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from The Red Hot Chili Peppers: “Scar tissue that I wish you saw/  
> Sarcastic mister know-it-all /Close your eyes and I'll kiss you 'cause /With the birds I'll share /With the birds I'll share this lonely viewin' /With the birds I'll share this lonely viewin'”

“Economically, Hong Kong is on a solid foundation, and will likely remain so.”

“And with regard to its political and legal foundations?”

“Mister Prime Minister, it is my view that, in its governance of the Hong Kong SAR, China will most likely send contradictory signals regarding its intentions on political and legal issues due to its uncertainty as to how to deal with this unique ‘one nation, two systems’ arrangement.”

“To add to Mr Campbell’s observations, Sir, divisions between reformers and conservatives within the Party and the Army are of particular concern. Much depends upon the political adroitness of the Chief Executive in balancing the demands of different factions in Beijing with those of interest groups in Hong Kong.”

“So, if we seek to preserve the ethical dimension of Britain’s interests, we must continue to closely monitor the transition of Hong Kong to Chinese authority. With an eye on the military perspective?”

“While the Chinese authorities' intentions appear to be to cause as little disruption to the economic life of Hong Kong as possible, the closed and often arbitrary culture of decision-making in China will inevitably undermine the relatively open, legally-based system in Hong Kong. This will have an adverse effect upon the territory's economy. In China, the wheels of economic life are greased by guanxi.”

“Expect corruption, then.”

“Yes, Sir, we believe it is only a matter of time.”

Blair sighed. Alastair was right— it was a threat to human rights on a massive scale, just waiting to happen. They needed someone in there. And quickly. They only had till July before the handover would be underway. Their man needed to be well-entrenched by then. Someone who already knew the system. And knew Hong Kong. It had only been three years since the British government acknowledged that MI6 and GCHQ even existed and the press was entertaining itself with continued speculation about all they were supposedly getting up to; he was hesitant to provide them with even more speculative fodder, but this was clearly a job for C. “Sir David?”

“Humint would absolutely be effective in this situation, Mr Prime Minister.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“We have a double agent who was planning on retiring from service. We ‘captured’ him a few months ago so we could bring him back home. With the right financial incentive, we might convince him to get back in the game. Then, if he is amenable, we could release him back into China, just for a year, to see how the wind is blowing during the transition. An exchange. Zi Lingxin goes back to China, and we get one of our own back home. They will see it as a victory.”

“I was not aware that any of our agents were currently being held overseas.”

“They aren’t.”

“Cai Xiaohong? In the Central Liaison Office? He’s been feeling the heat lately. If we tipped off Chinese authorities, then we could use him for the exchange and get him the hell out of there.”

“Mason, if they ever found out about Cai, an exchange would be the last thing they’d have in mind. They’d want him executed. No, we would need to send someone over expressly for the purpose of being captured. Someone young, relatively harmless, just a hair above a wandering backpacker who slips across the border. We will need him to be quite clearly working for us, but of minimal concern. The risk would be minimized once we suggest an exchange, but we’ll need a good man. One who could allow himself to be easily caught without arousing suspicion. Someone with excellent instincts and savvy far exceeding his age and current level of experience. Zi is seen as a valuable operative for them. We would likely need two of ours.” Sir David seemed momentarily lost in thought.

“Two men, to be captured on purpose, to facilitate an exchange which would put Zi in place without undue scrutiny? They’d have to have excellent timing. Get caught at just the right moment.”

“I have two men in mind.”

Good. That was C’s job after all, not the Head of State, to know who to select for these missions. Sometimes, the less he knew of it all, the better. 

“Of course.”

And that was all the permission Sir David would need.


	2. London: 2016

“You told him to look after me, didn’t you?”

“Maybe I did. What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world, and you know it.”

“He wanted to go; he just needed a reason. I gave him a reason. The rest, whatever it may be, has nothing to do with me.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just send a man after me and… and…”

“And what?”

Mycroft looked downward at the Tabriz rug. He’d been pacing and hadn’t been aware. He walked slowly, deliberately, to his escritoire and sat in the ornately carved mahogany chair. “And pretend it is a neutral act. On your part, or on his.” He stretched his legs forward, then removed his left shoe and retrieved a lacrosse ball from the front drawer to rub against his arch. Sometimes a little fidgeting proved helpful, but he much preferred something difficult for Sherlock to pick up on, and pacing was far too easy to detect. Plus, he had been aggravating his plantar fasciitis with far too much time on the treadmill. He continued the discussion. “Nothing which occurs after this has any inherent value. He was doing his job. He likes to help people. You asked, directly, for his help, and he provided it, and that is all any of it means.”

“And where is he now?”

“Asleep on the chaise lounge, in my sitting room, wrapped up in Grandmama’s unfortunate afghan.” Gregory Lestrade was not an early riser.

“Not the spare bedroom?”

“No, he deemed it too far from my own room. He said he wanted to be nearby,” Mycroft paused, “In case I needed anything.”

“And not in... your bedroom?” 

Mycroft could see his brother’s face in his mind’s eye, and had he been a different kind of man he would have longed to smack that grin right off it. He took a deep breath and pressed the ball in a bit harder. Maybe he wasn’t that different a man after all. Still, his little brother hyper-fixating on his well-being might very well be the best outcome for this whole mess. Far better than the other alternatives that had flooded Mycroft’s brain as he had waited to be released from Eurus’s old cell. 

It only made sense that Sherlock would be overwhelmed with guilt, and it seemed a reasonable coping mechanism, albeit a simplistic one, for his brother to set about the task of finding him someone who could prove to be his own version of John Watson. In some ways the end goal might be a pleasant one, were it not prearranged. To have someone to look after him. Not that it was required. Someone who simply didn't put him last on their list, or even _actively try to kill him_. That would be... nice. 

Mummy was still furious at his deception, Eurus was...well, he certainly wasn't gaining any points there, and when it came to Sherlock, he had confirmation of what he had always known: John came first. It wasn’t a bad thing, and perhaps Mycroft’s death in exchange for John’s assured safety would not have been in vain, though the two of them might not have lasted long after reopening John’s newly-healed wounds, as it were. Someone dying to save someone else. Hardly an auspicious start to their reclaimed relationship. But, reclaimed it was, and surprisingly strong, for all they had been through. Mycroft chastised himself. No point in being envious of something you can never have.

“My bedroom indeed. As if I’d let that happen. As if his entire reason for being here wasn’t an artificial one.”

“Irrelevant. And as I said, and forgive the repetition, but it seems necessary while you pause to reconfigure your worldview: he needed an excuse, I provided him with one, and from now on, things can proceed with greater ease.”

“I don’t want you meddling in my—”

“Oh, meddling is a _bad_ thing? I had thought meddling was... just a nasty name for what concerned people _do—_ ”

“Fine. Fine. You’ve achieved your goal, taken your shot, as it were. So let us agree that it is now upon me to do as I see fit?” _Which will be to rid myself of this ridiculous set-up._

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Lestrade is my best connection to the Yard, and therefore to a steady supply of cases, contingent upon their seeming endless talent for mediocrity. I can’t have him moping about in a depressive state, not going into work because you rejected his attempt to be kind. He wants to help you. Why don't you try letting him?”

“He is helping me.”

“Good.”

“Are we done here?”

“Might be a less painful alternative to running a treadmill at all hours.”

“Yes, thank you for your input.”

“Might get a foot massage out of him, if you asked nicely.”

Mycroft disconnected the call.

He had tried to do the right thing, time and time again, and yet...here he was, being “supervised” by one of the few men who had caught his interest in years.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had a certain easy confidence. And he was able to successfully manage Sherlock, which spoke volumes for his intelligence and skill. This, Mycroft had to admit, had been instrumental in the man having caught his eye. Sherlock followed the rules now. More or less. So, there was, yes, a certain something, a quiet strength, that had made him take notice...and once he had, he was struck by just how many other things began to present themselves.

That he was attractive was clear, and not something in Mycroft’s favor. The inspector could have his pick of the eligible of any sex, yet had steadfastly divided his time between his work and his wife. That must have changed, or else he wouldn’t have been ‘looking for an excuse’, as Sherlock put it, to spend some time away. Not time away with him so much as time away from her. The divorce he read as inevitable must also be eminent. 

Wasn’t that the sort of thing one went to a pub to do? To drink and complain about failed relationships? Mycroft had no idea. He hadn’t had anything close to a relationship with which to make a comparison. He’d had liaisons. Arrangements. When he felt he needed them, anyway, which was fairly close to never from a good twenty years back, when he had decided there were far better uses of his time.

To be honest, it wasn’t as if he had deliberately chosen to set relationships aside, as Sherlock had once done, in some quest for perfect focus. Mycroft simply found he hadn’t missed them. At all. 

It had worried him once, briefly, as everyone at MI6 seemed to have some sort of partner. Far better to have an escort at functions then, and he had had his share of those. Power attracts. But before long, he found no need to hide his lack of interest. Uncle Rudy taught him that lesson long ago, but it had taken Mycroft some time to truly believe in the power of the open secret. Yes, Uncle Rudy was a bit unusual—certainly viewed by some as deviant—but he was good at what he did. Very good. And if you were good enough, no one cared about anything else. You had to be not just good, but also unrepentant. Your shame is your own enemy and can be used against you, but if you are … _you_ enough...people will overlook most anything as a truly inconsequential quirk. Hiding it was what courted trouble. So Mycroft just took the whispered moniker on in stride and carried on with his work. Eventually, the mumblings faded into the background and even the name had ceased to be uttered. It had been such old news for so long that when word finally got around to him that James Moriarty knew of it, he had just laughed.

Iceman, indeed. He looked down at the ice slowly melting into his scotch. Yes, it was probably too early for a drink, but who would care? 

So, the fact that, only after giving up on the whole notion of relationships, one should be brought to his very door, well… That was life, wasn't it? Predictable as the patterns between trading partners, cataclysmic events, political succession were, it just wasn't the same with individual human beings. Or maybe some people could see it coming. Maybe Gregory Lestrade was one of those people. He seemed to know how to navigate those waters without so many nautical minefields.


	3. Someone to Watch Over Me

Drink in hand, so as to not leave incriminating evidence of his mental state upon the dining room table, Mycroft left the kitchen, passing his sitting room where Lestrade remained upon the sofa. It was going on 10. Unfathomable that someone could sleep away so much of the morning, but it had given Mycroft ample time in which to think. He moved silently back to his bedroom. Placing the drink upon his bedside table (Lestrade would think it had been a nightcap), Mycroft stripped down to pants and a vest, positioned himself beneath the covers, and pretended to sleep. He ‘woke’ with a start to Lestrade peering through the open door frame. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a late riser.”

Mycroft straightened himself in an attempt to regain his composure. “I’m not. Generally.”

Mycroft watched as Lestrade observed the scotch, the ice still very much intact, telling him far more than Mycroft wished him to know. “It’s the stress. It wears you out. Don’t feel bad.”

“I won’t, then.” Mycroft sighed. He wanted to assure him he was fine. But Sherlock was right on this count. Lestrade needed a place to simply be for a while. And with all the man had done for him...not just managing Sherlock, but in his willingness to go off and make certain he was doing well, after the… Well, maybe he could stand a little more looking after. 

Not that he deserved it. Mycroft had a balance sheet to work through. He’d caused an incalculable amount of grief. What if he had been honest about Eurus having been alive and imprisoned? What then? Well, most definitely Mummy would have visited her. Eurus would have presented herself as an innocent: shut out of childhood play by her evil brothers, an isolated, suffering cindergirl who was eventually locked away out of convenience. And it would have worked. She would have been released long ago. To do what? It was a somewhat simplistic argument to claim she would have been less dangerous having had emotional support in lieu of growing more detached from humanity in her isolation. But it was a fair point to claim her isolation, in fact that isolation in general, was actually the…

“Mr Holmes?”

The words startled him. Not simply because they had interrupted his train of thought, but also in their formality. Then again, Mycroft himself had steadfastly avoided the use of any names at all in conversation until now. “Please, just, Mycroft.”

He smiled at that. “Yes, okay then. Mycroft. First names are better for me, too. Sorry. Are you okay, Mycroft? You seemed a bit, out of sorts, I guess.”

“Fine...Gregory. Just, distracted.”

“What is it with you Holmeses and names? Neither of you ever get it right, do you?” He laughed. It was... nice to hear. “Just call me Greg. Not Gregory. Not...Grant or Greyson or Griffin either. Just... plain ol Greg. Nothing special.”

Oh, most definitely something special. But, address him as he wishes to be addressed. If Anne prefers Anthea, this was no different.

“Just distracted, Greg.” He waved it off. “Thinking. I am fine, actually. You don’t have to stay.”

“I know. You already told me yesterday. I get that I don’t have to stay. The better question is, do you want me to leave?”

“I slept well. I don’t see any need for someone to watch over me. I have faced far worse than a bit of...alone time...in a cell, and will likely face far worse in future. It really was nothing, Greg. Don’t feel obligated to supervise simply because Sherlock seems to think me fragile.”

“Oh. _That’s_ it.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Well, I’m not here because he said so. I’m...concerned. I know you might not think too highly of me. I’m no genius. But I am good at what I do. And, I have a fair amount of training when it comes to…”

“Trauma.”

“Yes. Trauma. Your tells aren’t typical, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see they’re there.”

“Such as…?”

“Not about to tell you. You’ll just try to cover it up better.”

Mycroft gave a tight nod.

“Care to tell me more about what happened in there?”

“Nothing. Not lashed to a chair with tape over my mouth. No swinging pendulums. No... pits filled with vipers. No take one false step and poisoned darts shoot out of the stonework.” Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head quickly. “All right, bad example. There were darts involved at an earlier point. But not poisoned ones. What happened to me? Absolutely nothing which would cause permanent damage.”

“She didn’t threaten you in other ways, did she? Or imply that she would do something to someone you cared about?”

Mycroft gave a bitter laugh. “That assumes there was someone I cared about for her to have threatened. I assure you there isn’t. Besides, she had her fun exploring that concept with Sherlock. Pointless to have done the same thing twice.”

“If she said she’d do something if you ever discussed the details with anyone, you should know she can’t. Her new facility has been upgraded.”

“Oh. You think she threatened retaliation if I told the police what she’d been up to? Sounds to me like the bulk of your training was in the child protective services division, Inspector. I’m a bit old for ‘Don’t tell anyone or I’ll hurt Mummy and Daddy.’”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought she could manipulate you like a child, Mycroft. I just know that she was—“

“You read the report from the officer who came to free me, correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well then, you know. She just left me there. All I had to do was wait. I knew I would be located quickly. She didn’t even stay. She went off to play her hide-and-seek games with Sherlock.” Mycroft brushed it off with a wave of his hand.

“And left you alone.”

“Yes. Left alone. Sherlock and John should have been so fortunate. Forgive me, I have work to do.” Mycroft grabbed his dressing gown, wrapped the sash a bit too tightly about his waist, and walked back to the kitchen. Strong coffee would not be amiss.

He opened the fridge. Disappointing. He had not prepared for meals at home. Mycroft usually ate at the Diogenes before work. The club’s clientele and the MI6 staff often overlapped, and as he was not expected to come into work for several days, going to the Diogenes seemed counter-intuitive. Besides, leaving Greg here would be unwise. He was, in spite of Sherlock’s steady stream of insults, still a detective, and there were things in his home which one could detect. Bread and eggs. No milk, but needs must. Perhaps there was still sufficient sugar and nutmeg. “French toast?”

“Thank you.”

“And coffee. Light cream, no sugar, I take it?”

“Exactly.”

“I intend to look at my laptop and see if there is anything resembling productive work I can do.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft whisked the eggs and then rummaged for spices. _Ah! Vanilla_. The cap had all but fused closed, but it would be serviceable. “I intend to go back to my office tomorrow.”

“Yup.”

“And how long do you think you will be abusing my hospitality?” That was a bit harsh. But honestly, the notion that he would need looking after was grating, and besides, how was he to pass the time with this disarmingly attractive man spending the day with him? The phrasing may have guaranteed an uncomfortable silence, but it was worth it if Greg would go.

Greg didn’t seem at all disturbed. “I’ll be gone tomorrow morning. I just want to convince myself that all is well.”

“Aside from, my actually saying that to you.” He coated a slice of bread, placed it on the griddle and realised it wasn’t anywhere near hot enough. The lack of sizzle was disappointing.

“Yes. Aside from that.”

Mycroft started on the coffee and gestured for Greg to have a seat at the table.

The first piece of French toast was a disaster and Mycroft binned it, hoping Greg wouldn’t notice. The second was far better, and he realised the closest thing he had to syrup was some agave he had used for his diet. Well. It was a syrup. He frowned as he placed it on the table.

“I..usually eat out.”

“It’s fine. I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I cook well. Jennifer loved to cook, so she’d do the meals and I'd wash up. ‘Course now I get to reclaim my cooking skills.”

“You haven’t moved out, have you?”

“Not exactly. We just fend for ourselves right now. Same house, different schedules. Was kind of like that before, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no it’s a good thing. We tried to make it work because we have history. But, comes a time when you realise that isn’t enough to hold you together, and it would actually be better to move on. I think she realised it just a bit faster than I did, but we both got there.”

“I see.”

“When I told her I’d be spending a few days at someone else’s place, I think she got the wrong idea. I didn’t bother to correct it though. Might as well let her think I’ve got something going on too, I guess.”

Mycroft pecked at his French toast. It wasn’t half bad. He wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and opened his laptop. 

It was blocked.

Honestly, that was the last straw. This coddling had to stop. He wanted for all the world to slam it closed, but instead closed it very gently, too gently, in an attempt to counteract the urge.

“They blocked you, didn’t they?”

Mycroft responded by taking another sip of coffee in silence.

“They block me on the regular after really difficult cases. The emotionally draining ones. The work is too important to do without a clear head. Don’t let it get to you. Tomorrow they will see you are fine and will give it back.”

He knew they would, but that wouldn’t help him get through today.

“I can bring up some cold cases, if that would help. Did Sherlock a world of good in hospital. Since they’re not active, it’s not an issue if you wanted to provide insight.”

“I have no interest in, nor talent for, criminology. And I have a meeting with the leader of Turkmenistan in three weeks which I need to prepare for.”

“They will clear you tomorrow.”

“If you don’t red flag me?”

“Even if you don’t get my free-and-clear stamp of approval, I won’t be sharing my opinions with anyone. It’s entirely of personal interest. I wasn’t sent here by MI6 and I feel no obligation to tell anyone there a thing.”

“Just Sherlock.”

“Not Sherlock either. Sherlock works for me, not the other way ‘round.” He took a sip of coffee. “Perfect. Was it the donuts? How you knew. That sweet coffee would taste too bitter, and I was not a fan of bitter things?”

“No. I remembered how you took your coffee the last time I met you. In your office.”

Greg frowned. “I can’t...that must have been ages ago! Back when Sherlock was getting his clearance to take on cases under my authorisation.”

“About that time, yes.”

It was nothing. Mycroft always filed away tidbits about people he found intriguing. Why wouldn’t he have found Greg intriguing back then? Willing to see past the surface level of his brother as he took his first steps toward sobriety. Sherlock hadn’t even learned to cultivate a proper image yet. His wardrobe would eventually be provided by Mycroft in an attempt to help him create a more commanding presence, but back then it was all inside out t-shirts and sweatpants. 

Greg seemed not to dwell on it. “We should do something to pass the time. I assume you don’t have any board games as such, but what about a deck of cards? Or…” Greg glanced at an elaborate marble chess board. “You’d likely kick my arse, but I do play. I’d give it a go. Might learn something. I imagine you and Sherlock could go at it for hours.”

“I haven’t played chess in ages, and never with Sherlock. Not since what he and I refer to as The Great Queen Swap of ‘88. It was abysmal, but he got his victory. I wanted to teach him Go, but I realised he had no sense of beauty when playing games, only a drive for victory. I had underestimated that need, and it had been rather disappointing. I would like to believe it would be a far more satisfying game at this point in our lives, but, sometimes negative impressions linger and leave their undeserved traces. I have no desire to play chess, though I haven’t removed the board. I’m not entirely certain why I haven’t.” Mycroft cleared the table. “In any case, you are correct. I have only playing cards on hand.”

“Do you happen to have two decks?”

“Yes. Though one of them is missing 2s through 5s. I’ll locate them and shuffle them back in.”

“What is that one for?”

“Durak. Russian game. Helps to create trust if you’re good, but not too good. I don’t know of any two-deck games for two players. What is it called?”

“Oh, I am barely awake yet for any real game. I had something else in mind.”

Mycroft didn’t even bother to conceal his contempt. “Dear God, not War.”

Greg laughed. “No, not War. I like something with a bit more skill than luck. We’ll build card houses. Point a card. And the person with the tallest tower gets a double score. The structure needs to remain standing for a full minute after the stopping point in order to have it count, and you can stop whenever you want to.”

“Back in a moment.” This could be interesting. Mycroft had no inherent skill at creating a house of cards, but part of the game was in anticipating when to stop building. How high was too high? How good at this would Greg be? He suspected very. He retrieved the cards from a credenza and returned to the kitchen. “I think it’s my arse which is about to be kicked.”

“Haven’t done this in years. Used to be good, back in uni. Drinking games, you know.”

“I suspected as much.”

“That I drank a lot in uni?”

“That you were social. That you did things like this.”

“They didn’t where you went?”

“They did. I didn’t.”

“I see.”

Greg bent the cards slightly inward and leaned two into each other, pushing gently down on top until they balanced. Then he added two cards on the sides, then completed a box. He formed two cards into a roof. Mycroft watched, gleaning technique, before he realised that might constitute cheating.

“Knowing the theory isn’t the same thing as doing it,” Greg said. “Watch if you want.”

And Mycroft watched. Yet it wasn't the card placement that was capturing his attention so much as the grace and fluidity with which Greg moved his hands. It was unexpected. He was staring, wasn’t he? He was staring, and Greg stopped balancing the second tier of cards and smiled. 

“I’m willing to play as long as you want,” he said pointedly, “but right now, you are far, far behind. Even if you are playing with aesthetic in mind. Let’s do a bonus for beautiful architecture, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled, and started on his creation.

“People don’t think I appreciate beautiful things. They think I am far too practical. But there is a beauty in the practical. In the efficient.”

“Zen and the Art of Cardhouses?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Mycroft started his base, and quickly realised his second layer wasn't at all stable. He quickly removed the roof and balanced the original V formation until it was steady. He made a series of low, triangular buildings, rather like a snowflake pattern. One story, but undeniably beautiful. 

Mycroft leaned back and looked at his handiwork. “They say the mark of beauty is symmetry. Beautiful structures. Beautiful people.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Well, those of us not blessed with symmetry have to make do with charming eccentricity.”

Mycroft expanded his work to the edges of the table and managed to use all of his cards. 

“Well, damn. That’s impressive. I’d call it a draw.”

“Surely you’ve got some work to do. You weren’t put on administrative leave for the crime of being imprisoned by a sociopath.”

“I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Mycroft considered it. Considered telling him the whole of it. He would believe him. Probably. But then again, what purpose would it serve? Use it for sympathy points? It hadn’t even been dire enough to warrant that. He tightened his lips, as if reminding himself not to speak of it. 

“I mean, if you say it was nothing, I believe you. I just wouldn't underestimate her...skills. I mean, if Holmes hadn’t been his pseudonym, I’d’ve thought she’d inherited it from good old HH back in Chicago. Pretty much the same murder-hotel concept. Didn’t make sense for her to have left the one it would be the most fun to break unscathed.”

He was right. It didn’t. But no one else had seemed to notice. After a while, it felt as if maybe they shouldn’t.

“Greg, I…” _Don’t_ “I know I said it wasn’t my forté, but perhaps there is some case I can at least take a gander at?”

“Absolutely. But, let’s make it a bit warmer of a cold case, shall we?”

After watching Greg work, Mycroft asked to see the layout of the manor house, and asked some questions about the staff and neighbors. Greg clicked around a bit online and eventually was able to find the information Mycroft was hoping for.

A few quick phone calls and a few pointed questions later, and Mycroft had proclaimed Adams as the culprit. 

“Well, for someone without any interest…”

“Sometimes, you can surprise even yourself. Given the opportunity.”

“I don’t know about you, but I could use some food. And as you usually aren’t much of a chef, I’d say we order in. It’s on me, covering a debt of gratitude from the future prosecutor for R v. Adams.”

They ordered from a nearby chippy. Mycroft hadn’t had honest-to-God fish and chips in ages. Fish, yes. Lean and steamed and suitably healthy. The conversation turned to exotic foods, something Mycroft had quite a bit of experience in as a foreign diplomat. He had had to eat things whose origin he could only guess at and had barely managed to conjure up the appropriate, culturally-sensitive response. They discussed odd foods for the better part of an hour or so, then moved on to family cooking disasters and terrible Christmas dinners, and then even worse Christmas gifts. The food and the easy conversation reminded him of things he had forgotten he missed, even if the high levels of oil made him a bit logy and queasy. It wasn't long before he excused himself to rest.

Greg turned his beautiful smile into something far more urgent.“Sometimes repetition is reassuring, so I am going to say this frequently, in different ways, until it sinks in. I am here for you. You can talk to me about anything you want to. Goodnight, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gestured toward his room. “You clearly believe I am suffering from a traumatic event, and yet I leave my bedroom door _open?_ How much sense does that make?”

“Easier escape?”

“Yes, if one is feeling threatened, why not leave one’s door wide open whilst sleeping. Sounds logical.”

“Fear isn’t necessarily logical.”

“But _I_ am. I wanted you to be assured that I trust you. And you wanted to ensure I was fine. What better way to do so, short of sharing my bed.” It was meant as a joke, but Greg turned abruptly away. Mycroft walked back towards the sitting room where Greg had set up camp and strode past him to the two nearly identical doors placed just before the hallway. He opened the one on the right. “I’ll leave the light to the toilet on for you.”

“Huh? Why?”

“So you'll find your way to it more easily should you require it. As you insist upon sleeping on my sofa instead of the guest bedroom, which has its own. As you wish.”

He made his way back to his bed, keenly aware that Greg would be leaving tomorrow morning.


	4. Knightsbridge: Three Weeks Later

The meeting was one of the more unpleasant aspects of the job, but it had to be done. This was clandestine, a saving grace that there would be no need to smile for the cameras; Mycroft could express his distaste for the man openly, and neither one of them would care in the slightest. Though their brand new constitution proclaimed them a secular democracy, President Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov was clearly an authoritarian. With his extending the term length of the presidency to retain his power, Mycroft found seeing him as a bonafide leader already difficult—even if he hadn’t just destroyed hundreds of Ashgabat residents’ homes to make way for a martial arts stadium.

Helping at this moment would certainly bolster his popularity. Not an ideal situation. The British Government had no desire to work with him. Yes, money and medicine would be sent, but nowhere near what he was about to ask for. Sadly, also nowhere near what the Turkmens needed. Even with the assistance they had already secured from Russia.

No, the bulk of the goods would be going to his opposition. A carefully calculated wait before providing what would be promised. It would be just long enough for his challenger to emerge as a hero of the people, rescuing them just before the country collapsed under the weight of famine and fatigue after emerging weakly from ongoing economic disaster coupled with a renewed H1N1 outbreak. At this early stage, keeping up appearances would be critical to the operation. They needed to look as if they were assisting promptly. Offer now. Provide later. Much later.

Mycroft didn’t like it. He had been in the political realm long enough to know how the game was played, but aside from the inherent immorality of stalling on aid during a crisis for political gain, the logistics were poor. Timing was a delicate thing, and the spread of disease and dissent was unpredictable. Britain’s “leader-of-choice”, still a subject of debate, must come to public attention and be able to secure supplies at precisely the right moment, and Berdimuhamedov needed to go along with it right now, completely oblivious to his impending doom, never to quite realise the shipments weren’t going to arrive as agreed upon. He had to overpromise his constituents, and to never, _never_ be believed if he should dare to attempt to accuse Britain of what was, in truth, a wholeheartedly intentional delay. Fortunately, Mycroft excelled at presenting a ruthless exterior laced with unspoken dangers. Berdimuhamedov would believe himself better off if he never so much as considered doing so. 

Still, something made Mycroft’s stomach twist. There was much that felt off about the entire situation. Especially when, on the way to the estate where the meeting was to take place, Mycroft received a text from Anthea stating that Berdimuhamedov had not chosen to attend the meeting in person. He would be sending two proxies: Shohrat Mamedova and Arslan Kerimov.

He shrugged it off. He was made of stronger stuff; every government had some blood on its hands in an attempt to prevent an even greater amount from being shed. If this man actually tried it, however—if he could provide sufficient documentation of an intentional delay— it would be disastrous. He might receive too much blame and, egos being fragile, might not be willing to shoulder it alone. But Britain could always claim supply-chain issues. Could always point to using an abundance of caution to prevent social unrest when shipping needed goods out of their country. They were still recovering from a worldwide depression, after all. It would be easy to justify delaying aid to a foriegn nation. Especially when it was a nation the majority of Britons believed to be...not like them. CP extremists would help there. It would be an ugly alliance, but, it was an option, if required. A usable political reality.

Mycroft advised the driver he would not be returning to the office and would make his own way back to his private residence when the meeting had concluded. Meetings like these occasionally went far into the evening, as getting to the heart of the matter could be difficult, though in his previous dealings with Berdimuhamedov he had been surprisingly direct. The representatives arrived at the designated hour, sat down, and politely folded their hands in their laps, waiting patiently for Mycroft to speak.

Mycroft knitted his fingers together and leaned forward. “We are willing to secure you three relief shipments.”

“Five.” Mamedova, a heavyset man with a thick, black mustache, spoke first as his younger associate looked on nervously. 

“No. Three.” Mycroft was not about to divert from the plan. “While we were certainly not as affected by H1N1 as some areas on the Continent, the current economic slowdown means Britain is also weathering its own financial uncertainties. We cannot spare our necessities. Once our manufacturing ramps up, we will send additional items.”

The man puffed up just a tad. “We have had offers of humanitarian aid from other countries as well.”

Ah, the misplaced pride of the former Soviet states. It had been generations ago, but the lingering insecurity always seemed to be handed down from leader to leader, manifesting itself as an unwelcome sense of bravado when seeking assistance. Good. No need for concern of a papertrail showing Britain had acted inappropriately. Berdimuhamedov had failed to surround himself with equally shrewd politicians. This was a simple lackey attempting to treat the opportunity to give away supplies as if it were some feather in Britain’s cap. Citizens of any country hadn’t given away massive amounts of money for the sake of charity since Bob Geldof had thrown piles of currency at Africa. It wasn’t about public relations anymore. Not enough people were paying attention for that to be worthwhile. It was about buying influence.

Apart from Russia, ‘other countries’ really only meant one. Two, if Angela was feeling generous, but judging by the way he had brought it up, that was unlikely. If he wanted to try his luck negotiating a “deal” with the new Trump administration, he could have at it. There would be no followthrough with a leader so inept he made everyone else look stellar by comparison. Britain’s positioning on the world stage was no reason for concern. 

Mycroft let the silence hang in the air until the clean-shaven, younger man spoke to break it.

“Yes, of course. And when do you plan to send the first wave of medical supplies?” asked Kerimov.

There was something in the way he was asking, though he couldn’t say if it was his tone or his mannerisms, which made Mycroft pause. It was nothing more than instinct.

Mycroft pretended his phone had vibrated. “Pardon me, one moment,” he said, and headed down a narrow hallway. The entire property was under surveillance, but a kitchen pantry was designated as clear, for emergency transmissions. He shut himself inside and took out his mobile.

There had been some chatter regarding the diversion of medication and equipment to hospitals within the regions managed by Berdimuhamedov’s inner circle. Cronyism was unsurprising, but at last contact, an agent on the ground had mentioned he was on the cusp of securing something far more damning. Mycroft wanted to be armed with the latest information. He had his own suspicions as to how the crisis could be manipulated, and he knew his finely-tuned instinct was never something to discard. There was a deeper plan at work, and he could feel it.


	5. Darkness

He checked for a coded post on an innocuous website—a message from his contact. This time, there was one.

He didn’t have the key with him, but he was familiar enough with the letter shifts. Names would be harder to translate efficiently, so he skipped them over in an attempt to glean the message more rapidly. A member of the Turkmenistan government was planning to create his own deliberate shortage. To have the populace begging for help, and after the suffering was well underway, charge in like a knight on horseback. The supplies they were about to send were destined to be diverted. Working quickly, letter by letter, Mycroft rushed to reveal the name of the official who had planned to hoard them. 

Arslan Kerimov. The man who had asked the supply question moments ago. A brand new pony to consider backing now, though perhaps an even less favourable one. But this opened up new moves in the game.

Should he continue with the limited distribution, or offer the full amount to prevent Britain from ever coming under scrutiny and let the current Turkmen leadership make their own errors? Britain would do well to provide a comprehensive relief package now, then align themselves with someone who would expose Kerimov’s corruption and take advantage of the opportunity to fill the momentary power vacuum as well as provide comprehensive aid to the citizenry in a far more timely fashion. It would require a quick and decisive move on his part. It would also defy instructions. But if presented with a better option, a more... moral... alternative, to not seize it would be beyond comprehension. Mycroft shut his eyes and thought it through. Was there any component he was missing?

Suddenly, there were voices. Muffled, to be sure, but he could hear them discussing something in earnest. Perhaps Berdimuhamedov wasn’t attending this meeting due to a prudent suspicion of those working beneath him. It quieted down. Whatever the disagreement, they had apparently agreed to discuss it in greater detail elsewhere. Mycroft took a deep breath, much relieved. If he promised them the whole five shipments, even six, and delivered, then his men in the region could easily do an internal—

More noises. Banging. Chairs knocked over in haste, glass shattering. 

Mycroft retreated deeper into the pantry. Nothing but canned goods and a few ration crates. Not a thing large enough to hide behind, and leaving the space would be a dangerous choice, even with an outside door just on the opposite end of the kitchen. He could see that door in his mind’s eye, and began calculating how quickly he could get to it. No. The house was likely surrounded. It wouldn’t be a job for just one man. He’d wait and listen for the— and there it was. Gunfire. More than a few rounds, which meant there was more than one man who had switched allegiances. There was shouting in a regional dialect of Turkmen he wasn’t as familiar with, but bits of conversation made its way past the rushing of the blood through his ears. “Traitor” was clear enough. As was “not enough manat to see” no, …”to watch my.” Well, it hardly mattered what they were saying. The representatives were dead. There would be no coup this time. Listening carefully for anyone leaving the house, he heard some movement. At least one person was still alive. Perhaps others outside of the house. The click and static of a cheap radio transmitter. A few words that made no sense in context about a lion, likely code.

_Calm. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The worst thing to do would be to check and see if they’re gone. Wait. Wait until you are certain they are. Hours. That means hours._

Mycroft sank to the floor. Soon, the light no longer made its way through the slots in the pantry shelf, and as the kitchen grew darker and he took out his mobile and shone it low to the ground, placing it against his hip. He waited. As soon as daylight broke, he would open the door. They wouldn't be coming back at 5 am. No one did anything at 5 am. Except possibly jog. 3 am, yes. 4 am, possibly. Not 5. He would open the door at 5. It felt good to have a plan. He checked his mobile for the current time. Nearly 10, and the battery showed one bar remaining.

Even a small child knows it isn’t actually the dark they are afraid of, but what is hiding within it. Mycroft knew there was not a single thing in that pantry besides cans and boxes when he had been searching for a place to sit and check the website hours ago. But what was it Greg had said? Fear is not logical. 

He might leave now; perhaps it was late enough. He no longer had any way to determine the time. _This is not Vienna. This is Knightsbridge. And there is no danger within the darkness that wasn’t already present in the light. Focus on your senses to stop panic attacks. You can’t see, but what do you hear, smell, feel? What can place you in the here and now?_ Mycroft ran his fingers along the concrete floor. In retrospect, not the best decision. Too reminiscent. Listen. Listen for the sounds of London, not the sounds of a holding cell.

It was too far from the main road to hear anything resembling traffic. All he could hear was the soft hiss of the heater. Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was a gas canister tossed through a broken window into the main room. A possibility. How much of a possibility? It seemed unlikely, as they had come with firearms, but he could still hear the sound. He needed to forget that sound, forget his sense of smell as well. If he fixated on it, he knew he would conjure up odors that were not necessarily there. If gas were truly present, that reality would eventually come to the forefront and make its presence known— even when actively attempting to think of something else. 

There were other noises. Indeterminable, though all too familiar in their very imperceptibility. Another sound in the distance. A man, quietly struggling for breath. 

That was what dragged him back. The sound of a man, struggling to breathe, in the darkness. 

Too dark to see the other MI6 agent sharing the cell with him, but he knows the sound of anaphylaxis. Something is here...a stinging insect? A spider? They’ve just been provided with food... that could be the cause. Mycroft can’t see in the darkness, can’t help. Still, going by sound, he finds him, holds him, calls out for help he knows will never come in time. It cannot have been intentional. They are pawns being swapped out for bishops. They are worth far more alive.

It was 7:23 when Greg’s team found Mycroft, still on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, staring blankly at the pantry door.


	6. London: 2016 (Stay)

“I knew something was wrong when you didn’t respond to my text this morning.”

“That could have been due to any number of things. What if I was still asleep? Or my phone might not have been charged. Or…”

“Mycroft, you are a creature of habit. You go to the Diogenes Club at precisely the same time every day. To not have your phone charging on your nightside table would...not be you. And you get up remarkably early. I’d know you from Evil Robot Mycroft. Wouldn't even need the goatee to tell.”

“I’ll act like I understand what that means.” Mycroft pecked at his toast and finally put it back down on the plate to look at Greg. “And why would a robot, theoretically designed as my doppelgänger, have a goatee?”

“I'll explain it later. You have some classic television in your future. In any case, I had asked something I was rather expecting an answer to, and there was none. So I set out to see what you were up to.”

What was it that Greg was so absolutely certain he would have responded to without hesitation? He was likely in error. Anything Mycroft would say would have required a well-thought out response, meticulous wording. Well, whatever it was, Greg’s opinion of him had likely changed after all this. The question was now irrelevant.

“And so you contacted Anthea.”

“Seemed like a good place to start. She had no qualms about letting me know your agenda.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“This morning’s had nothing until noon, and yesterday’s led me to the estate.” Greg sat down at the table, and Mycroft watched him try his best version of nonchalant. It wasn’t very effective.

“I know. I’ll explain,” Mycroft said.

“When you want to. And, actually, _if_ you want to. That might be the better word choice.”

“I know. It’s a bit harder to convince people I am fine when I couldn't hold it together long enough to simply get up and go home. I owe everyone some sort of explanation.”

“You owe no one a single thing.”

“Not even you?”

“I’m not going to pretend I wouldn't like to hear one, but you don’t owe me one, no.”

Mycroft swallowed. There were very few times in his life he had thought it better to not know something, but he gave it due consideration. He decided this wasn’t one of those rare occasions. Knowing what he almost had...that mattered too. “What were you going to ask me?”

Greg shrugged. It was a fleeting gesture, and Mycroft wished he could have frozen it just a moment longer to determine exactly what it conveyed. “I did ask you. In the text. I asked you if I could come back. For a bit. I mean, I have a place, I’m fine. But I wanted to know if I could—”

“Stay.”

“Stay. Yes. A bit longer, because I—”

“No. No, I wasn’t completing your sentence. I was interrupting you with a request. Please, stay.”

Greg smiled. That perfect moment Mycroft had hoped for, that easy transition, like their talk of Christmas dinners. This could have been just like that. But it would no longer be. He watched, sadly, as Greg’s smile turned into worry once more. “This isn’t because I am trying to pry. And, at the time, I thought you were right. Thought that you were doing well. I just wanted to spend some more time with you.”

“And now you are _concerned_ and want to spend more time with me.“

“I—”

“No, no, it’s fine. This changes things. It should.” It ruined them.

“She knew. She knew what buttons to push and I was right. It wasn’t as harmless as it appeared.”

“Knew my fears? Of course. Simple for her to determine, even if she hadn’t access to my evaluation file, the process by which they assessed my mental state before I was permitted to return to fieldwork. She knew long ago. Back in 1997, she knew. They put me on administrative leave then, as well.”

Greg was looking down, trying not to show how eager he was to hear what had happened. Then. Now. To hear it all. Well, it was about time someone besides Eurus knew, anyway. Mycroft cleared his throat and continued. 

“It all began with my first field assignment. It was supposed to be a simple spy swap, easy enough to accomplish and of minimal risk. They had a double agent to put in place in pre-reunification Hong Kong, so they actually wanted me to get captured and make it look like an accomplishment on the part of the Chinese.” Mycroft took Greg through the events in a matter-of-fact way. It had been routine. “I let myself get captured and spent some time in confinement until they arranged for a neutral location to facilitate a swap of personnel. Two of theirs for two of ours. That location would be Vienna, which has been a common one for these types of things for decades, even before the Cold War. Again, all to be expected. It was pitch black in the holding cell, which, I will admit, I hadn’t been anticipating, but we were given adequate food and water.”

Greg’s concern was obvious.

“No, this was not a case of mistreatment. It is true we were mere goods for exchange, but there is only so much damage you can do if you want an even one. That it took place in an underground bunker converted to a holding cell should have been of little consequence. But it did explain the darkness.” Mycroft stopped to clear his throat. “Yes, there was... an excessive amount of darkness.” 

Greg nodded.

“The food was about what you’d expect from your average gaol. They’d open the door, slide a tray rather unceremoniously across the floor, and slam it shut again. I can only assume the Chinese prisoners received similar treatment in a different location within the compound. We were waiting to be picked up, my partner and myself. He was also fairly young. Slightly younger than I. I believe it was his first assignment as well. We didn’t talk much for fear we would divulge something of critical importance which might have been overheard and, in any case, neither knew what to say to the other. It would be a quick negotiation and then we’d be back in England.” Mycroft stopped and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “And now is when you know something has to go very, very wrong. And it does. I never did know what it was he had reacted to. It could have been something in the food. Or maybe it was some sort of venomous creature. It was too dark for me to see. All I knew was, one moment he was fine. Quiet, as usual, but fine. The next, he was going into anaphylactic shock. They did try to save him, but they had nothing with which to counter the reaction.”

“Horrible.” It was almost a whisper.

“Well, yes, it was, but, I left fieldwork for what was to be a limited time, found I was far superior at...what I do now...and never expected to be in a similar situation again. The conditions were, after all, rather unique. But she… she did her very best to recreate them. Drawing not only upon the darkness, but also upon the knowledge of someone in peril I could never rescue in time. There were...certain parallels with the situation at Knightsbridge as well. Third time’s a charm. I suppose it would be accurate to say that while I was in the pantry, time folded in on itself.”

Mycroft debated telling Greg more about Eurus’s arrangement. How very dark it was. How quiet. That he had to listen carefully, though he had tried, at times, not to. The other sounds, faint ones, which he had needed to remain aware of. He shook his head.

“Another time, Mycroft. I am sure she did her best to use every bit of what was at her disposal. I’m here as long as you need. And I will wait.”


	7. Sherrinford, Three Weeks Prior

The room is brightly lit, all the lights trained upon him like an interrogation room. He tried a similar tactic with James Moriarty, even though he had already known it would be futile. He wouldn't torture the man, and he suspected even if he had, Moriarty wouldn’t crack. Pain seemed to mean very little to him, and Mycroft wasn’t about to violate his own principles for no reason. That would be what would have pleased Moriarty most, to have made him cross the line and have had nothing to show for it. In the end, he had let him go. This room has the same type of lighting. Mycroft shades his eyes against it with his hand. Then. Darkness. Darkness made all the more pitch by the contrast from moments before. 

His eyes have no chance at adjusting. He closes them and tries to focus on sounds. Brace himself for whatever comes next.

It is the sound of water.

Water and a voice. Likely John’s, though there is an echo to it. The feed volume is too low to hear the words, but that isn’t necessary. Mycroft knows exactly where John is. But that place, or rather what remains of it, is hundreds of miles away. How long had he been unconscious? What was in that dart? Well, that didn't matter anymore. Sherlock and John must be at Musgrave Hall. And he has been given the privilege of sitting in the dark listening to it all unfold, powerless. It is all too familiar.

_So. You found out. And this is your experiment on me, now is it? Oh, Eurus, this was a mistake, going this far. Yes, this was a mistake because I will not let you win this round. You do not get to throw me in the dark and have me listen, helplessly, because I know what you are trying to do, and it is just too clever to work. Too perfect. Too spot on. I won't let you._ He dredges up all his will and concentrates on his breathing, keeping it deep and even. _No panic attacks, no. I refuse to play._

And then he hears the other sound. Something moving across the floor. He instinctively runs to the wall where the bed was, smacking into it, and he climbs onto it and lifts his feet on top of what passes for a mattress. But surely, this was what would be expected of him? Yes, yes, it was what she would anticipate him doing, but then he would have been well-aware of that and he is momentarily paralysed thinking through the layers upon layers of anticipated reactions. Every fibre of his being tells him to head to the front of the cell and position his back against the glass partition. That would be safest, so, by extension, that would be most dangerous. 

He curls his legs in front of his chest and waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, forcing himself not to move. Something is either in there with him or it is meant to sound as if. 

Mycroft tells himself she doesn’t actually want him dead. But no. He is absolutely expendable. He and John are both expendable in this game tailored exclusively for Sherlock. He could die. Sherlock is the one meant to live, and to suffer.

He sits perfectly still, trying desperately to peer through the darkness. Sounds again. It’s John, and this time he has found something in the well. Mycroft knows what it is.

Then silence. Which means next comes the... No. The sounds are gone now, though he still strains to hear them. Anything. He wants to hear Sherlock's voice, just once. Surely, he is fine. Surely, his role in this is to find John. Play Eurus’s game. He mustn’t be hurt, it wouldn't make sense. That would defeat the purpose of…. to… and suddenly his mind is back in Vienna. 

_It couldn’t be poison. Killing him would defeat the whole purpose of the exchange._

Worlds spill over each other, and he thinks... he thinks he hears a man struggling to breathe. His old partner? Maybe the sound is a live feed of John. Or maybe it is himself. Yes, maybe he is the one struggling to breathe, trapped in here. Breathe. Breathe. And...he smells something. It’s...it’s...peanuts? No, it is briny. Fish. Shrimp. Both? Somehow piping in the scent of food allergens. _Spot-on, Eurus. So spot-on it’s almost funny._ No, it _is_ funny; so funny that Mycroft finally smiles. _Match to me. You lose._

And that’s when it happens. Her final gambit. There is a new sound— someone breaking down a door as the lights kick on and Mycroft instinctively checks the floor and puts his feet back into a normal position, all the while blinking against the return of the harsh light. 

He had been correct— there are peanuts and shrimp. There is a small table alongside the glass partition set with food and some faint marks upon the floor to indicate it had been moved out from a panel within the wall whilst he had been on the bed. She had intended for him to avoid the front of the cell. Shrimp Pad Thai and a glass of milk. Well, close to half a glass. Grains, eggs, peanuts, shellfish, dairy. All right there on a tray made to appear partly-eaten. There is soiled silverware and an unfolded napkin with some sauce on the edge. Music plays, quiet, classical, a mockery of an elegant restaurant. To an outsider, it would appear as if Eurus has been thoughtful enough to have provided him with a perfectly nice meal in which he has partaken, whilst he waited for his deliverance. 

A policeman finally defeats the lock, takes it all in. “Well, glad to have found you in good spirits, Mr Holmes. We were worried about just what we might find in here, to be honest. Sorry to interrupt your supper, but I think we need to get you home. If you don’t mind making it...to go.” He smiles broadly.


	8. London, 2016 (Unscathed)

Explaining it in greater detail was impossible. Greg would be expecting unspeakable horrors, not a catered lunch and poor lighting. Mycroft has already revealed himself as weak, exploitable, pitiful really. Adult men are not afraid of the dark. Adult men do not care what a rescue officer thinks: do not care that it looks for all the world as if he is enjoying a lovely meal while his brother and his partner are fighting for their lives. So what if others believed that to be the truth? Adult men concentrate on the things that really matter. Eurus had allowed him to discern where Sherlock and John were, and _that_ mattered. He had been left unharmed. Remained, still, unharmed. Any true danger has been an illusion. 

Greg was to sleep on the sofa again. Mycroft had turned the bathroom light off. That secret was out and leaving it on only served to make him feel worse. Greg switched on a side table lamp and was reading something he clearly had just grabbed from Mycroft’s bookshelf solely to justify having a light on for him. He had never felt so ashamed or so grateful. 

Mycroft sat next to him on the sofa, as Greg scooted up his feet.

“She did an exceptional job at recreating the elements of my time in captivity. But there was no true danger I was facing. It was, entirely in the trappings of my own mind.”

“So, psychological torture, not physiological.”

Mycroft blinked. “Well, it…” True, that had been her game from the start, and he had fought hard not to have let her win. “That hardly matters. She tried. That she finally succeeded many months later is...well, I would say it is beyond even her range of expectation, but then again, she sees things that are yet to come. Her unique genius is far beyond my own comprehension.”

“From what little I know of her, she is capable of anything.”

“I lost my battle with her today. She didn’t put it directly into action, but perhaps she saw it as likely, even inevitable, that something similar would arise. I lost to her all the same. One more similarity was too much for me. Trapped in that space, listening to Kerimov drawing his final breath, I no longer had presence of mind.”

“I’m going to assume you were—” Mycroft watched as Greg searched for a word less childish than ‘hiding’. He wished he would just use it already. Nothing else sounded any better...bivouacking?...keeping safe?... “—sitting there in darkness through the night.”

Yes, sitting. That would do. “I was, yes, but anyone remaining was dead or dying. I was safe. I just needed to wait to ensure no one returned. And I failed at that simple task.”

“Understandable.”

Mycroft sighed. “Not really. There is no danger within the darkness that isn’t already present in the light.”

“Except the inability to _tell_ exactly what is present when you are surrounded by darkness. Which is something you conveniently took out of the equation so you could continue to beat yourself over the head with it. In the dark, you have to trust that the situation remains the same, and it often doesn’t. I get it.”

“Preparing is … what I have. All I have. This is, my genius.”

“You and your brother both have that, well, compulsive need for data. Which must make it all the worse when it doesn’t work. When you can’t get your hands on it. You’ve developed observational skills far beyond us normal folk. It’s your way of coping with an unstable world. Skill. Talent. Defense mechanism. All the same thing. Can’t imagine your early life was stable. What is it they say? People as an aggregate are predictable. People as individuals are not. Situations aren’t either. Because they are controlled by the actions of individuals. And it all will shift on you. You go in expecting one thing, and you end up with another. You go into a room, a political negotiation, a job, a relationship, even. You go in with expectations and they shift beyond your insight. Beyond your control. Sometimes, they might even shift from bad to good. But the point is, it all shifts and you have to handle it as best you can. Shite happens. Constantly. And as much as we want to be prepared for it, there is no way anyone can be.” 

“Without that insight, I am nothing. It is my career. My raison d’etre. Without it, I am not just weak. It is far worse than that. Without it, I am useless.”

“Meaning ordinary? Or do you actually mean without value? That you wouldn’t be likable if you didn’t bring that to the table?”

“I am inherently unlikeable. It is Purpose which has allowed me to carve out a place in the world.”

“In the time I have spent with you, during those days last month, did you fix anything for me?”

“Yes. The Adams case.”

Greg looked down and shook his head. “Yes, you did. I forgot about that. Rather wrecked my point there.”

“You... forgot about that?”

“Yeah. I mean don’t get me wrong! I forwarded the file upwards and they are on it! I just...that wasn’t what stuck with me about spending time with you. I simply enjoyed your company.”

“And you had forgotten.” The way the words spilled out made it sound like a bad thing, but it was, in fact, remarkable.

“If you were trying to impress me with it, believe me, I was already impressed by you a long time ago. Hardly necessary.”

“No, that isn’t what I was trying to do. Not...intentionally. I was bored and thought it would be a way to...not talk about other things.”

Greg sighed. “I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I can’t say I remember exactly what I was saying before you suggested cold cases. I feel as if I should.”

“You had said that it didn’t make sense for her to have left the one it would be the most fun to break unscathed.” 

“And you weren’t. Unscathed.”

“And you noticed. Even after I tried my best to present a strong front, and I will say, I am exceptionally good at doing that, you still noticed.”

“But I let it go. And I think part of it was I really wanted to see you again, without you feeling like I was tending to you in some way. I figured after the all-clear, I could try. When things were back to normal. I wasn’t entirely selfish about it, though. I did trust in your ability to move forward. But I missed some scars.”

“I had no intention of showing them, even if I sometimes wished they were more visible. Which makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Does to me.”

“Nice to know it does to _someone_. But I also had thought it well-managed. Until last night.”

Greg was quiet for a moment. Mycorft suspected he was looking for something reassuring to say. He wished he would stop trying.

“I’m glad that was the thing I said that had upset you. That it wasn’t something over dinner, or that I was being too casual. Or too forward. I don’t mind you not wanting to discuss her. And you don’t owe me any details. Remember that. I know you are a private man, and I respect that.”

“That’s how they say it gets better. Talking.”

“There are other ways to get the truth out,”

He could always speak to her directly. He shuddered. Let Sherlock meet with her and play his little duets. He went to the family reunion, the _concert_ to make everybody happy. He did his part. 

Greg shifted on the sofa, leaned forward, and placed a hand on Mycroft’s knee. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

Mycroft looked down at Greg’s hand, resting there. “I’m...I was thinking about whether I should speak to her.”

“Do you want to speak to her?”

Mycroft’s voice caught in his throat. He pushed it through, and it cracked. “No.”

Greg looked relieved.

“I am supposed to, though, aren’t I? Sherlock believes she didn’t...doesn’t understand how to interact with people. Believes she needs comfort and understanding. That she deserves a—” Mycroft stopped and waited for Greg to fill in the empty space. For him to say something. Anything. Challenge him. Question him. Confront him. Instead he just sat there holding his stupid book, which wasn’t even his, which he was clearly never really going to read anyway and watching him. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

There was that annoying look of pseudo-neutrality again, and Greg said, “Goodnight,” calm as you please, and picked up the copy of _London to Ladysmith via Pretoria_ and started to read.


	9. Victory

Mycroft disrobed to his usual pants and vest and sat on the edge of his bed, careful to be out of the sightlines of the sofa. He rubbed at the arch on his left foot. It did nothing for his restless anxiety. 

How dare he. How dare he sit there pretending to read a Churchill autobiography and wait. Just wait. Just quietly, bloody waiting for him to decide that he needed to get this out, process it, get over it. Just like everybody else. Take your time, Myke. We will wait until you are ready. Maybe you can join us next month, if you aren’t so busy with all you do for the country. 

Mycroft plugged in his mobile and placed it upon his nightside table, scowling. He could hear the occasional rustle of a turning page as the bottom brushed against the afghan. Each time he heard it he got a little bit angrier.

And why did Greg want him so damn healthy anyway? So they could start a _relationship_. So he could continue to share feelings, have someone to take to those idiotic work functions—one couldn’t properly call them parties no matter what the invitations in calligraphy on linen ivory paper claimed they were. And wouldn’t Mummy be so proud and Sherlock so relieved!

Mycroft stormed back into the sitting room and shut off the light.

“Hey! I was reading!”

“Since when are you the least bit interested in the Boer War?” Mycroft shouted into the darkness of the room, and made his way back to his bed. He pulled up the covers as well as the heavy quilt which lay folded at his feet. He was shaking. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to time his breathing, but it was no use. He reflexively reached for the mobile and turned on the screen, flooding his bedroom in a pale blue light. Better. And he hated that it was better.

Greg wasn’t in the doorway as such, but he could still hear his voice. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t _just_ reading. But I _was_ reading. I’m not gonna try to act like I didn’t have the light on for your benefit as well. But honestly, I saw the back cover and it said something about it being the most exciting early Churchill work and his escape from the Boers after the Armoured Train Attack, and his return to the British lines, and I thought if I’m ever going to delve into history, this would be a decent place to start.” He sighed. “And I can’t sleep either. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well you are doing a damn fine job at sitting there being supportive and kind and you’re being damn near bloody perfect so I wouldn't worry too much.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“...You’re welcome.”

“Can I come in?”

“As you wish.”

Greg stood at the doorway and leaned against the frame. 

“Greg, I know you didn’t sign up for this. And I’m going to be fine. Maybe you should give me a month. Come back then, and see if I’ve made any progress.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Progress! You understand what progress means! Check on me later, see if I’m doing better with, with this.” He gestured at the dimly-lit room. “See if I can get past it. See if I can stop vacillating between it all being the forgivable actions of a damaged and troubled mind and... the most sadistic and deliberate form of cruelty I have ever witnessed. No. _Experienced_. And when I figure out how to get over it and make my peace with her, I’ll let you know. I’ll ring you up. We’ll have fish and chips and then you can fuck me and congratulate yourself on your excellent trauma-informed approach.” _Well, that was, unexpected._

“I’ll go.”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his head. 

“It sounds like that’s what you need right now, so. Yeah. I’ll go.”

Mycroft lifted his head, tears reflecting the blue light. “I have no idea what I need right now. But I do know I’m sorry. That was, beyond the pale. And I know you aren’t trying to rush things. I know you aren’t. With her or... us.”

“I forgive you.” Greg looked like he was fighting not to say more. A whole lot more. But instead, he took a slight step backward. “And... maybe I should go back to the sofa and just read a bit more.”

Mycroft shifted over in bed, leaving a space to his left. “Or...you _could_ read here.”

“Yes. I could.”

“That book is nearly 500 pages, you realise.”

“I hadn’t checked.”

“498, to be precise. I have read it many times. If you are, in fact, genuinely interested in Churchill’s capture, escape, and trek through enemy territory with nothing but four slabs of melting chocolate and a crumbling biscuit in his pocket— and it is perfectly fine with me if you aren’t— I can tell you all about it. It would save you quite a bit of effort. Not that it isn’t a good read, mind you, but...498 pages. And I know all the best parts. If your goal was simply to keep an eye on me, however, I’d like to add there is no better vantage point than right here.”

“True.”

Greg sat on top of the covers, and Mycroft began to describe Churchill’s early career as a news correspondent—having his boastful “my literary talents do not exist in my imagination alone,” confirmed when he received more money than Rudyard Kipling or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to cover the Boer War. By the time Mycroft got to Churchill’s being chosen to go over the fence first, as the least fit member of the group, Greg laughed. No one followed him over because they decided to abandon the project and have dinner instead, so Churchill waited a bit on the other side and eventually decided to give it a go on his own. With no supplies or knowledge of the local language. Greg was absolutely captivated. It was a truly ridiculous story and Churchill had no business having been anything but a spectacular failure. But he somehow made it to safety.

“That was fascinating. Truly. I’d no idea.”

“His was a fascinating character. He managed to turn his faults into attributes.” Mycroft had no illusions about Churchill’s less than stellar personal life, and sometimes he too felt a stone’s throw away from self-destruction. “He was stubborn, as many great leaders are, but he also had a touch of paranoia. Of course, it was that very nature which had led him to reject appeasement when it was the fashionable concept.” Mycroft shook the parallels which presented themselves for consideration out of his head. Eurus was not Hitler. For one thing, she was considerably more intelligent. And Sherlock might be right about her being redeemable in time. Perhaps he should leave room for that possibility. Still, he could never be Chamberlain. “I know I don’t have to visit her,” he said.

Greg nodded, as if he had somehow followed the train of thought. Perhaps he hadn’t, and had just been waiting all this time for him to broach the topic.

“They want me to. They don’t know exactly what went on, Mummy and Daddy. And if they did, I worry that it wouldn’t make much a difference to them. I haven’t said anything, and I believe Sherlock has told them a rather abbreviated version. But then again, Sherlock has always been future-minded, whereas I am the one perpetually stuck in the past. Be it history, or my own storyline. I admit it has a certain stodgy quality, but I also feel as if I am the keeper of the family traditions. Perhaps it goes part and parcel with being the eldest child. But I digress. I wanted to tell you more about what she had done. In the cell.”

And he did.

And Greg listened. Sometimes in fear, sometimes in anger. Never entirely in disbelief, and for that, Mycroft was exceedingly grateful. And when Mycroft had finished at last, from the interrogation lights through to the mocking meal, Greg said, “She tried to take away any opportunity for you to tell your story. To make it embarrassing or inconsequential or flat out bizarre. And it was none of those things.”

“It was, admittedly, rather bizarre.”

“Not too bizarre for her to have carried out, though. She didn’t think you would speak of it. So, you need to recalibrate the victory scales. I think you won after all.”

Mycroft gave a quick smile. He didn’t quite believe that just yet, but he’d consider it.

“How do you feel?”

“Exhausted.” Mycroft yawned. “Some people get up at 6, not 10,” he mumbled, and leaned his head against Greg’s shoulder. Greg wrapped his arm around him, as he drifted to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft woke with his head slumped against Greg’s chest, Greg’s arm still wrapped around his shoulder, and carefully extricated himself. It seemed childish, being held until he fell asleep, but that is more or less what had happened. He decided the best thing he could possibly do for Greg and for himself (through mostly for Greg) was to accept it with grace. That didn’t mean he couldn’t find a way to make it up to him. He took out his mobile and ordered breakfast. Then groceries. The two-hour delivery window still left plenty of time before Greg would wake up, plus afforded time to face the current dilemma. Greg wanted to help him and he, well, maybe he wanted to be helped. It was a fair admission. Still, the more he thought on the next family visit, the more he felt something verging on physical illness. He pushed it aside. He’d figure out how to handle it. Greg would help. 

Mycroft idly thumbed through the Churchill biography Greg had left upon the sofa. Interesting that Greg should have chosen this one. He wasn’t joking about having read it multiple times. Seven, at last count. Mycroft didn’t have an exceedingly large collection of books, but every single one on his shelf meant something to him. He took it to his overstuffed Queen Anne chair, opened it up at random, and started to read. He was fully engrossed by the time the bell rang with the breakfast delivery, which he safely tucked away in his fridge. He checked his work mail and was immediately drawn into drafting a complicated reply, which occupied his time until the groceries arrived.

The order had errors, per their usual, but he didn’t mind. He would have a presentable fridge, and would find something to do with the extra two dozen eggs. Perhaps make a custard; Greg might enjoy a dessert. 

The book was still resting on the table, so he carried it back to its proper spot on the shelf. Something new this time? The only book he hadn’t yet read was an antique copy of _Martyrdom of Man_ , one Sherlock had suggested to him on two separate occasions, and which he hadn’t yet read for that very reason. No. More Churchill instead. The familiarity was grounding. After finishing out the chapter, he put on some coffee. 

Breakfast in bed felt like overkill, but he still considered it. How does one do the relationship thing without being so melodramatic about it? Too grand a gesture would feel patently ridiculous. So would making no effort whatsoever. _I am likely to fail, but, perhaps, like Churchill, I will somehow muddle through and turn it into a success. Either that or end up a perpetually smoking, paranoid drunk with racist tendencies._ Learning to connect with people, even with one person in particular, is an acquired skill. The question becomes: is it one you wish to learn? And he did. 

No more Churchill for today. Instead, he went to Google and looked up “evil robot goatee”, then followed the results to a “Beard of Evil” tropes page and “Deliciously Evil Twins We Love To Hate”. Even though twins were admittedly different from robots, there was, he felt, an inherent similarity. Oddly enough, the article had made a notation as to whether or not the evil twin discussed within the paragraph had facial hair— even though only five of the fourteen did, and one of them simply required a proper straight-edge shave. So, this was to be his future. 

He heard Greg stir, and reheated the bacon and eggs in a cast iron skillet. The aroma was pleasing, though a bit heavy, and Mycroft opted for dry toast. Well, perhaps with just a hint of marmalade.


End file.
